by Devon, Eva
He cocked his head to the side, which caused his thick, slightly waving hair to dance upon his hard cheek. “I do love a confident young woman. Have you always been thus?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. He was proving far more predictable than she would have liked. Surely, he did not think so little of the female sex? “Why should I be otherwise?”
“Well,” he said, with a careless shrug that only emphasized the perfect cut of his dark riding coat. “Many women are quite shy and missish in the company of a duke.”
Duke.
The word echoed through her brain, and her throat tightened. Dukes were rare creatures, indeed. Creatures which ruled the island and set the fates of people like her on their course.
“Are you a duke, then?” she asked, casually readjusting her hold on her reins.
“Indeed, I am,” he said with a flourish of his leather-gloved hand. “Let me present myself. I am the Duke of Royland.”
“I suppose I should be very honored,” she said, “but you are not my first duke, and therefore, I am not easily intimidated.”
He blinked and then he laughed. “Good God, young woman, you really do have a way with words. And who is this other duke? Some ancient old fellow who can barely stand or chew his meat?”
She lifted her brows and said happily, “Quite the contrary. The Duke of Drake, if you must know.”
“Bloody hell,” the Duke of Royland drawled, his gaze hardening. “You’re not her, are you? You couldn’t possibly be that one.”
“Her?” Penelope echoed, confused.
And in a flash, she realized, of course, that he meant her friend.
“No, I am not Lady Persephone,” she bit out, irritated that he should, clearly, already have strong feelings about her cousin. “I am her dear friend. Do you have something you do not like about Lady Persephone? Obviously, you have never met her, if you thought I could be her. We look nothing alike.”
And that was absolutely the truth, for Persephone was a beautiful, corn-rich blonde. In almost opposite fashion, Penelope had rich, dark hair and blue eyes.
The Duke of Royland gave her a strange look. “I do not wish to see my friends taken advantage of.”
“And you think that Persephone has taken advantage of the Duke of Drake?” she queried, all but laughing. Drake didn’t seem like someone who could be easily taken in, in her opinion.
“What else can it be,” he asked flatly. “They know each other but little. She has no fortune. What else could she possibly hope from him but his status? Certainly, she is using him.”
Penelope straightened, her whole body suddenly shaking with anger for her cousin.
“I think you are possibly the most arrogant person I have ever met,” she said tightly.
“Then you haven’t met very many men,” he said, his lips curving with amusement.
“Clearly not,” she agreed. “And I hope not to meet a great many more like you.”
“Then you best leave London,” he pointed out as if he had no clue how rude he was being.
“I quite like London,” she gritted. “And you’re the first unpleasant person that I’ve met.”
He blinked. “Unpleasant, am I?”
“Indeed you are to say such unkind things about my friend,” she pointed out.
Artemis pawed the dark earth path. Penelope stroked her shoulder, a quick assurance.
“Are you interested in a duke, then, too?” Royland mocked. “A fortune?”
She scowled at him. “I really haven’t given it any thought. This is my first Season, and I’ve never been to London before.”
“I see.” He narrowed his eyes and looked to Artemis then lifted his gaze slowly back up to hers. “It surely explains your behavior here on Rotten Row.”
“My behavior?” she repeated, suddenly filled with indignation.
“Indeed,” he replied cooly. “Gallivanting about like a wild thing.”
“I am a wild thing,” she declared without apology. “And I’m quite happy about it. I have not been hothoused like so many young ladies in London. So, yes, I am a bit odd, but I like it, and I’m not going to change for anyone. Certainly not for someone the likes of you, duke or no duke.”
His lips turned in a grin then. “My goodness, young lady. You do have a great deal of confidence yourself.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking up her reins.
“And your name?” he asked, though it sounded more like a command.
“Miss Penelope Finley,” she informed. “If you would like to know, and this is a strange conversation.”
“Yes, it is,” he agreed, his massive stallion shifting weight.
“I’ve just introduced myself to you, and you just introduced yourself to me. How terribly shocking.”
“Oh,” he said, looking just behind her. “I do see your groom finally coming along. He looks absolutely petrified, as he should, and I think I must have a word with him.”
“Don’t you dare,” she instructed, not caring if she was but the daughter of a mere gentleman and he, great lord of the realm. “He’s a sweet young man, and he did nothing wrong. And I was never in danger of hurting anyone or myself.”
“So you say.” Royland’s sensual lips tightened for a moment as if considering his next remark.
“Yes, I do. And you should believe me.” She lifted her chin. “For I am confident, as you say, and I am no fool. I promise you that, Your Grace.” Penelope looked him up and down, and retorted, “I can see a gentleman from a rake if you press me.”
“For a young lady who’s never been to London, you seem to understand the concept of a rake very well,” he pointed out. “How is that?”
“I read,” she pointed out with a great deal of disdain.
His lips twitched, and his eyes danced merrily.
“You read, and that is how you know about rakes?” he clarified.
“Of course,” she scoffed, determined not to seem a country mouse. “Anyone who has read Mr. Fielding, would absolutely know about rakes. I’ve also read all the plays of Mr. Wycherley and Mr. Congreve.”
“Have you, by God?” he asked, his eyes dancing only the more with amusement. “Have you seen them, then? So you know exactly what a rake is like.”
Was he making light of her? It would be easy to do, she assumed, a man of his experience. But she would not give in. Not to someone who had besmirched her cousin. “Of course I do, and I think you must be one to the last detail.”
He laughed, a deep rumble of a sound. “I am most certainly a rake, young lady. I do enjoy women quite a good deal. Not your type, though. You are far too innocent for me.”
She rankled at the term innocent, but it was absolutely true. That’s exactly what she was. For now, at any rate.
Penelope inclined her head. “Your Grace, I must bid you a good day.”
“Must you?” he asked, his stallion beginning to dance ever so slightly at being held so long. “I find I have not been this entertained in quite some time.”
“I am not here for your entertainment, Your Grace. I am here for my own pleasure.”
At that, he gave her the strangest look. “You are not interested in pleasing me?” he asked, slowly, deeply.
“Why should I care about your pleasure?” she asked plainly, though she knew there was some deeper double meaning in his words, for her body burned in the most delicious and inexplicable way.
“Because I’m a duke,” he pointed out. “I’m capable of bestowing all sorts of honors.”
“I do not need any more honor,” she replied as she realized members of the ton were beginning to stop and stare at them. “I have quite enough of my own, thank you,” she rushed. “My reputation is intact. I have enough money to buy myself tea and sugar and gowns. So what need I of you?”
“Thanks to my friend, likely,” he said, his good humor dimming again.
She flinched. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve heard,” he began boldly, “of the deal your friend made, tha
t my friend, the duke, is going to take care of her and her family. You’re her family, aren’t you? You’re not just a friend. You’re her cousin.”
She flinched.
It was true.
She was Persephone’s cousin, and the Duke of Drake was going to ensure that she wasn’t thrown out into the road, completely ruined, without anything to buy her meat or to buy her coal to keep her warm in the winter.
It had been a shocking moment when everything had fallen apart so completely for her father, and it had been rather difficult to swallow at first, knowing that they would have to take the good graces of the Duke of Drake.
But really, there’d been no alternative, not unless they wished utter ruination. She was no fool, nor was her father. At the end of the day, they knew that somehow, someway they would find a way to repay the Duke of Drake. Perhaps not with funds, but with friendship and family.
He seemed so alone.
And when they’d first met, he actually had liked them quite a good deal. They’d liked him too. And as far as Penelope could see, that was far more important to the Duke of Drake than all the gold in all the world.
Penelope gripped her reins tightly, and Artemis slammed her hoof into the earth, clearly sensing her displeasure.
“Are you accusing me of something?” she demanded, not caring that he was a duke.
He gave a strange smile. “Just wondering if you’re cut from the same cloth as your dear friend, Lady Persephone. Would you marry a wealthy man that you barely knew?”
She cocked her head to the side.
“If it meant saving someone who was dear to me, yes, I might,” she said easily. “It is the way of the world, Your Grace, and to imagine anything else would be very innocent indeed. Are you more innocent than you think?”
He gaped at her. “Innocent,” he gasped. “My God, you really are a wild thing, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “And I’m going to take that as a compliment and bid you good day, Your Grace. I’ve had quite enough of your opinions. I like London quite a great deal, and I will not allow you to spoil it for me with your presence.”
And with that, she whipped her horse around and rode like the wild thing he’d declared her to be, back down Rotten Row.
Ladies of the ton stared at her as she rode furiously away, gossiping behind fans. Penelope’s stomach tightened as she realized, racing across the park, that she was providing a bit of a scandal.
But she wanted to show him the way she could sit a horse. That, truly, all his arrogant concern had been for naught. She wanted him to see she was absolutely capable, and that indeed, she need never see him ever again or have assistance from a man like him for the rest of her days.
Chapter 2
Rafe, Duke of Royland, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the remarkable young lady flying across the park. Her rich, chestnut hair flew behind her in thick curls, tied with a crimson bow which matched her habit. The jaunty sit of her tricorn suited her.
What the devil had just transpired?
He’d never had discourse with a woman like her. Certainly not a debutante of the ton. He didn’t particularly feel stunned by women generally. He knew them all too well. He adored women, it was true, but he’d never felt such a deep and abrupt need to engage in such honest conversation.
She had done something to him. She’d irked him. She’d audaciously pointed out the flaws in his reasoning. And it had thrilled him.
Innocent, by God. Innocent. No one had ever accused him of such a thing, not since he was a lad and he’d been ushered into sin. And from that day, he’d been pursuing said sin with dedication.
The very idea that he might have a touch of naivete in him was quite astonishing.
He quite liked her boldness, though he wasn’t entirely certain he liked her. She wasn’t to be trusted, after all, being part of the family that was fleecing his dear friend.
The Duke of Drake was a very special man, one who had been hurt a great deal, though he tried to hide it under a mask of droll commentary and witty repartee.
No, Rafe would not allow anyone to hurt his friend, of that he was certain.
Even someone as spritely and confident as Miss Finley. Was her cousin, Lady Persephone, cut from a similar cloth? If so, he could understand Drake’s fascination. Still, he would be watching that family with a careful eye. No one harmed those he loved. No one. Not if he could stop them.
Rafe turned his own stallion about with an easy turn of his reins and headed in the opposite direction of the young lady. He had things to do on Fleet Street, newspapers to run, things to manage.
Generally, he was a man of idle leisure. And he spent a great deal of time in women’s boudoirs. It was, after all, what many a duke liked to do when he wasn’t completely absorbed by the running of the country and his estates.
One had to find a way of relaxing somehow, and he found that a good bottle of wine and a beautiful woman did the trick better than most things.
Some men preferred fighting. Whilst he knew his way with a pistol, rapier, or fists, he worked his troubles out in a different sort of way.
There was no denying he had gotten into a great deal of trouble over the years.
Trouble he deeply enjoyed. But there was a type of affair he’d never and would never engage in. He did not seduce debutantes. That was just beyond the pale.
Widows and married ladies were to his taste. Granted, husbands could be very tricky. Being a bull in another field did have its complications.
Bloody hell, it was a deuced difficult thing to keep abreast of, but with the way inheritance worked, he was careful about what wives he had affairs with too. They always had to have an heir and a spare before he’d allow himself to engage in carnal relations. One did have to be very careful about fathering children.
It wasn’t really about morality; it was all about power, in his personal opinion. It was very frustrating, but there it was, the reality of the world. Just as she had said.
The realization galled him.
Miss Finley had declared something far more practical than he, an experienced man, usually would. Marriage was always about money for a woman because she had almost no other way to secure her future.
Well, his hat was off to her, even if he couldn’t quite forgive the way in which Drake had found a wife.
As he rode through the cacophonous bustle of Fleet Street, he felt a growing sense of accomplishment.
As a duke, there was a great deal that he could do in Parliament, but he still had to tread carefully lest he alienate those closest to the King. It was this need which had sent him to Fleet Street. It had taken him very little time to realize the power of the press, and so he had bought several printing presses, hired men of words, and men who knew how to suss out political intrigue.
He did manage things as carefully as he could, but he found that as a news sheet man, he could inform the people and influence their actions.
Very few people knew of it, and he enjoyed it immensely. Royland rode along the packed street, past the Inns of Courts.
Fleet Street teemed with life, and it filled him with good will. There was a tangle of vehicles before him, from hackney’s to wagons, to coaches.
The life around him was absolutely marvelous.
He drank it in.
It was one of London’s oldest streets, and still many of the buildings dated back to the 1600s, having survived the Great Fire somehow. He was so proud and grateful that they had, for it was a street where the buildings had such incredible character. Narrow and tall, they seemed to give London its character, a mark of what it had been and what it would always be.
Surely, Fleet Street would be just like this in two hundred years. Some people might find that to be a bit sad, the lack of change.
Not he.
Oh, no, the idea that Fleet Street might still look the same, actually, to him, was a sign that England would continue on, and London would be one of the greatest cities in the world, forever to be.
It was such a beautiful street, uniting West London to the East. And as he wove his highly tempered stallion through the loud fray, he knew that if he were to wander just off the road, he would find Number 79, the secret club of his fellow dukes—well not so terribly secret.
Many people came to the parties there, but the secret place upstairs, where he and the other dukes of the Number 79 Club met, was most certainly a secret.
As he passed the Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese Pub, he looked for his building, and there it was: a beautiful, old Tudor structure, four stories high, red brick and Tudor beams with all the aged cream wattling one could imagine.
He stopped just before it, unable to proceed for a moment, choked by various different vehicles and other men upon their horses.
As soon as they recognized the Duke of Royland, everyone immediately touched their caps or quickly bent their head with deference as they simultaneously tried to give him more room. That’s what it meant to be a duke, to have more room, and he appreciated it.
Indeed, he did.
It was good to be a duke, for he could do a great deal with his power, and he would. So, with that, he spotted his doorman and gave him an instructive nod.
The older gentleman, who had been a soldier in Wellington’s Army but had been wounded and therefore invalided out, came over to him. His beautiful green coat hung perfectly on his slightly bent but still-proud shoulders.
For Royland, hiring men who had served their country was a matter of course. It was his duty as a duke to ensure the welfare of the people of England. Especially those who had sacrificed their own well-being to defeat Napoleon.
“Good day, Your Grace,” Michaelson said, a smile on his face despite his broken body. He had come back from war when many of his friends had not. . . And he was not forced to beg upon the streets as so many were. “Have you come for a spot of work, to keep you honest?”
Royland gave the older man a smile. He enjoyed the good-natured banter they exchanged, the almost paternal nature of the old soldier, even though he was far below him in rank.
“Indeed, I have, Michaelson,” Royland said happily. “It’s just the thing. I think I need a bit of fresh ink on my fingers, don’t you?”